Speaker 1: Calorogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled a Thanksgiving Horror, Part One, The Gathering.
Speaker 2: There's a particular quality to the air just before a
family gathering, a heaviness that speaks of anticipation, of memories
both cherished and feared, of secrets waiting to surface. I
feel it now as I walk the halls of Blackwood House,
ensuring everything is perfect for Tomorrow's Thanksgiving celebration. The floorboards
creak beneath my feet, not from age, but from something
approach ching appetite. My name is Harrison Blackwood, Harry to
my children, though they rarely call anymore. At seventy eight,
I've presided over more family gatherings than I care to count.
Speaker 3: But this one, this one will be different. It has
to be.
Speaker 2: The hunger grows too strong to ignore. I pause in
my preparations to check the root cellar, the preserves Margaret
put up that final autumn still line. The shelves, their
contents dark and viscous. Twenty years and they haven't spoiled.
They never do. The house ensures everything stays fresh. In
the main hall, I stop before Margaret's portrait my dear wife,
frozen in oils and canvas, eternal in her beauty. The
artist captured her perfectly, that knowing smile, those eyes that
held secrets. What he failed to capture was the way
her teeth would lengthen when she was hungry, how her
skin would ripple when change began. The children still ask
about her sometimes, even after twenty years, still wonder why
she chose to leave, If only they knew she never
really left at all. The doorbell rings, its deep tone,
echoing through empty rooms like a dinner bell. Elizabeth always
arrives first, my eldest, so much like her mother, elegant, ambitious, assured.
As I open the door, winter light catches her face,
and for a moment, I see Margaret's hunger in her eyes. Daddy,
she says, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly,
eight months pregnant with her first child. I can hear
its heartbeat from here. Hearts beat. Twins, always twins in
our family, though only one ever survives birth. The strong
consume the weak. Nature's way, our way. Her wife Grace follows, ever,
the journalist, eyes already scanning the foyer for stories. She's
never trusted me never believed the tale of Margaret's abandonment.
Smart woman, dangerous woman. The house notices her too. I
hear it shift slightly, testing her presence, like a tongue
testing new food. The house looks exactly the same. Grace says,
a slight edge to her voice, like it's frozen in time.
If she only knew how right she is. Time moves
differently here, bending around our needs, our appetites. Sarah arrives next,
my youngest, with her perfect family in toe. Three children,
all showing signs. I see it in the way they move,
the way they watch, especially little Emily. Last week Sarah
called in tears about finding Emily in the kitchen, raw
meat in her hands, mouth stained red.
Speaker 3: She was eating it.
Speaker 2: Daddy, Sarah had whispered, standing there, eating it raw and smiling.
It's starting earlier each generation, the hunger grows stronger in
the bloodline. Thomas, Sarah's husband, helps with the bags. He
married in poor man, doesn't understand why his children sometimes
watch him sleep, their eyes reflecting light that isn't there.
Doesn't know why the sound of his heartbeat makes them
lean closer. Michael arrives last, as always, my only son,
looking better than he has in years. Sobriety suits him.
Though it won't last. It never does. The hunger always wins.
Addiction runs in our family, but not to the substances.
Michael thinks, Hey, Dad, he says, and I catch a
whiff of peppermint on his breath, trying to mask something else.
No doubt I recognize the copper undertone. Someone should check
the local missing persons reports, that sweet coppery scent that
never quite fades. Margaret used to say it was the
iron in the pipes. Another of our necessary lies. I
gather them in the drawing room, this beautiful collection of
secrets I call my family. Elizabeth perches carefully on the
antique settee while Grace prowls the room, studying the photographs
on the walls. She pauses at one of Margaret, frowning
at the slight blur around my wife's fingers, the suggestion
of claws. Sarah's children cluster near the fireplace, eyes reflecting
the flames in a way that's not quite natural. Michael
stands apart, hands shaking slightly as he declines a drink.
He's fighting it, poor boy, always fighting what we are
before we settle in. I announce I should warn you
about some renovations. The east wing is unstable. Best to
stay in the main part of the house. Unstable, how
Grace asks sharply, foundation issues. I lie smoothly. The east
wing isn't unstable. It's awakening, just like the children, Just
like Elizabeth's unborn twins, one of whom is already growing
stronger at the expense of the other, as if on cue.
Emily looks up from the fireplace. Grandpa, she says, in
that too old voice that raises the hair on my neck.
Is Grandma Margaret coming to dinner tomorrow. The room goes silent.
Sarah reaches for her daughter, but Emily continues, eyes reflecting
impossible colors in the firelight.
Speaker 3: I saw her in the mirror upstairs. She said she's hungry.
Speaker 2: Sarah laughs nervously, Such an imagination, but I see the
fear in their faces. Elizabeth's hand tightens on her belly.
Michael takes a step toward the drink's cart, then stops himself.
Grace's eyes narrow as she watches us all. Emily, dear,
I say, carefully, mirrors can play tricks in this old house,
and she knew my name, Emily insists, she said, all
the children's names. She said, We're almost ready, ready to
become A log crashes in the fireplace, sending sparks swirling
up the chimney. For a moment, they seem to form
a pattern, that ancient pattern I've seen in my dreams,
in the family cookbook. In Margaret's eyes that final night,
when she smiled and said it's time. I think it's
time for bed. Sarah announces too brightly, big day tomorrow.
As they file upstairs to their old rooms, I retreat
to my study. Margaret's portrait here is different from the
one in the hall. In this one, her smile shows
teeth too many, teeth too sharp, but only if you
know to look for them. The portrait was painted the
week before she disappeared. The artist himself disappeared shortly after.
His bones are part of the foundation now feeding the
house's endless hunger. They're not ready, I whisper to her
painted eyes, Please give me more time. But the hunger
doesn't care about time, about love, about mercy. The hunger
only wants what it wants, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I
can hear them settling in above floorboards, creaking water, running,
whispered conversations. The house listens too, tasting their movements, their fears,
their potential. I hear Elizabeth in her old room, whispering
to her unborn children. One heart beats stronger than the other.
Now soon there will be only one. The family way.
Emily's voice drifts down the stairs, singing an old nursery rhyme,
Margaret used to love. One for the father who plants
the seed, one for the mother who tends the need,
one for the family gathered to feed, and one for
the hunger that's never freed. The sound carries oddly echoing,
as if multiple emilies are singing from different corners of
the house.
Speaker 3: Perhaps they are.
Speaker 2: Time and space bends strangely here, especially near the change.
I begin my nightly rounds, checking the locks, not to
keep things out, but to keep them in. In the kitchen,
the refrigerator hums with its special contents. Margaret's recipes require
such specific ingredients. The butcher in town knows not to
ask questions about our special orders anymore. His silence is
well compensated. Passing the children's rooms, I hear whispers Emily
and her cousins speaking in that old tongue that should
be lost to time. They remember more each day. Soon
they'll remember everything, just as I did at their age,
just as their parents did before, pushing the memories down
under layers of denial. A sound from the east wing
draws me the I told them all to stay away.
Grace stands in the forbidden hallway, running her fingers along
the wallpaper. The pattern shifts beneath her touch, though she
doesn't notice. Not yet, mister Blackwood, she says, not turning around.
The house feels different at night. All houses do, I reply, carefully, No.
She traces a pattern that makes my teethache. This is different.
I'm a journalist, sir. I notice things like how the
rooms don't quite match the exterior dimensions, Like how the
shadows move wrong, Like how my wife changes when she's here.
Subtle things, the way she watches our dinner, the way
she smiles. What happened to Margaret? Her voice is steady,
but her heart races. I can hear it, smell her fear.
Really happened?
Speaker 3: I mean?
Speaker 2: Before I can answer, A sound comes from above. Emily's voice,
but wrong, stretched, hungry, Grace looks up sharply, should get
some sleep. I tell her tomorrow is an important day.
She hesitates, then nods as she turns to go. I
notice the wallpaper pattern has changed where she touched it.
Reaching out, I smooth it back to normal, feeling the
house shiver at my touch. In my study again, I
open the family cookbook, not the one we show guests,
the real one, bound in materials best not discussed. Margaret's
handwriting fills the margins around recipes far older than our
family's time in America. Notes about preparation, about ripeness, about
the proper way to feed a growing bloodline. The house
groans around me, a sound like settling beams or grinding teeth.
In the kitchen below, something shifts in the walls. The
hunger awakens. Tomorrow, my family will gather for Thanksgiving dinner.
Tomorrow the truth will begin to surface. Tomorrow, they'll start
to remember what they really are, what we all are.
But for to night, I sit in my study, sharing
secrets with Margaret's portrait as the house digests. Another day,
I sip my wine, a special vintage, metallic and rich,
and wonder which of my children will be the first
to remember why their mother really disappeared? And what's actually
buried in the root cellar beside the winter preserves from
upstairs a thump, then another, The twins in Elizabeth's womb
fighting their ancient battle.
Speaker 3: Soon there will be a winner.
Speaker 2: Emily's voice drifts down once more, But now it sounds
like Margaret's time to feast. Time to feed, time to
give the hunger what it needs. After all, every family
has its traditions, and every feast requires a sacrifice, And
tomorrow is Thanksgiving at Blackwood House. May God have mercy
on us all though God I suspect turned away from
this place long ago.
Speaker 1: Ghost is a Caloroga Shark Media production written and hosted
by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers
Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast may
have been created with the assistance of AI. This show,
along with hundreds of others from Caloroga Shark Media, is
available commercial free on any player hassel Free.
Speaker 3: Just look for the link in the episode or show notes.
Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media